


Changes

by scorchtrialled



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Paradise, Spoilers for The Death Cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchtrialled/pseuds/scorchtrialled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas stared into the lake, his reflection grimacing as he did. He was different, too. A lot different. Weaker. Too weak to get through a week without waking up in a cold sweat, the bang of a gun signalling the end of his sleep, and the start of four hours of waiting for the sun to come up so he could get to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changes

**Author's Note:**

> yo this is my first fanfiction on ao3 and it sucks a lot. sorry for any mistakes in both grammar and spelling and in relation to the book.

Nearly a year since they had come to Paradise, and everything had changed. All the Immunes had adapted to their new lives, at least by now, and the town was coming along well, with everyone housed wait her alone or with one other person. Shops were popping up, too, with goods traded and sold on a currency built around offering favours. It was both similar and different to the way the Glade was run, but he wasn't complaining.   
Thomas stared into the lake, his reflection grimacing as he did. He was different, too. A lot different. Weaker. Too weak to get through a week without waking up in a cold sweat, the bang of a gun signalling the end of his sleep, and the start of four hours of waiting for the sun to come up so he could get to work  
It wasn't just on the inside that everyone had grown.   
People's appearances changed in a year. Brenda was softer around the edges; Frypan's beard was even more bushier, and Minho was clean most mornings.   
Minho... He'd said Thomas was different that morning, too.  
"So, shank. Tomorrow's the day. One year since we got out of the hellhole that is the rest of the world. Seems strange how freakin' different everyone else is. Yourself included."  
"How am I different?"  
"Mostly in appearance. You're more tan. Hair lighter. 'Eyelashes flecked with gold,' I would say if I gave a damn about poetry."  
"I don't know whether I should be flattered or disturbed."  
Minho laughed quietly. "You're making funnier jokes more often as well. Who would of thought of Thomas the shuck Greenie making jokes every second day? Newt would have a fit."  
"I did make jokes, you were just too busy noticing my eyelashes," Thomas replied, with a roll of his eyes. He cringed internally at the casual mention of Newt. It was Newt who still haunted him. He'd come to terms with what had happened to everyone else who'd died for him within weeks of arriving at their safe haven.   
But not Newt.   
Newt, who was festering inside Thomas's mind as the time since his death continued to grow, on and on, just like the guilt that was building up and up and up inside of him.   
He would have probably said something stupid about what he'd done to his best friend, if Frypan and Gally and a bunch of other ex-Gladers hadn't been sitting in the same room.   
I should tell Minho, he thought, looking back on their conversation. He had spent the one-year anniversary of when he'd killed one of his best friends laughing about making jokes. It felt plain wrong.   
He made up his mind- next time he caught Minho alone he would tell him what he had done, despite the promise he had made to take his secret to the grave. It didn't matter- this wasn't the first promise he had broken.   
He was brought out of his thoughts by the soft crunching of footsteps on the sand around the lake.   
"Thought I'd find you here, shank." It was Minho. Speak of the buggin' devil.   
"Hey, Min'. What brings you to these parts?" Thomas gestured around the area, the large lake, tinged with the colours of the setting sun and the trees, still and silent in the non existing breeze.   
"Looking for you, actually." He sat down elegantly across from the other boy, his back to the tranquil water body.  
"Paradise is going well, isn't it?" Thomas asked. It had been a while since he'd talked to Minho properly, about proper things, just the two of them. Everyone in the town had been busy working on new projects and on making the town run as smoothly as possible, and it was working. Most people were happy, although every night there were screams of terror as people woke up from their nightmares about who-knows-what.   
"Yeah, it's good, isn't it? But what about you? Are you alright?" The older boy leaned forward, searching Thomas's eyes.   
No, was his answer, but he couldn't bring himself to tell the truth.   
"Yes." Thomas stared at the lake.   
Minho knew something was up.  
"Oh, fine. I'm not okay," Thomas snapped   
"Tell me what's wrong," Minho demanded, scowling at the other boy with such a ferocity that Thomas was slightly scared. He gave in.   
"It-it's about Newt." Thomas hung his head as he braced himself for what was to come. Telling Minho would probably ruin their friendship, but it felt wrong to just leave him in the dark.   
"If it's about the steamy romance between you two, just spare me the details." Minho slumped, his eyes on the ground. "He's probably dead by now."  
"Steamy romance? Minho, what kind of slinthead are you?"  
"What kind of slinthead crushes on a bloody crank?" He packed as much ferocity as he could muster into the final word.   
"You thought I liked Newt?" Thomas had been planning on telling him he'd killed Newt, not telling him he hadn't loved Newt.   
"You did, didn't you?"  
"No! I mean, as a friend, yeah, but in a _love_ way? Man, you really are shucked in the head." Thomas grinned as he spoke.   
"Are you sure?" Minho leaned in more, squinting as he scrutinised the other boys expression.   
"One hundred percent." Minho's face was very close, and for some reason Thomas was paralysed. He noticed a faint white scar just above the other boys top lip, and resisted the urge to reach out and run a finger over it. What was he doing? They were best friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Or...  
"Good. Now I won't feel guilty about doing this." Minho leaned in and kissed him.   
At first Thomas was surprised, but then a year and a bit more's worth of pent up unconscious sexual frustration took over. The other boy's lips were chapped but warm, and tasted of honey and mint and salt water. He felt the burn that he'd felt when he'd kissed Teresa and the burn he'd felt when he'd kissed Brenda, until what he'd had with both of them fizzled out.   
They were moving closer to each other when Minho lost his balance and fell on top of the other boy. Thomas's eyes opened and met his. He was blushing furiously, his cheeks a deep red that only ever happened when he was breathless or embarrassed. Thomas was reminded of a time when someone else was on top of him, but in a way worse situation. His breath caught in his throat.   
With Minho's face swimming in front of him, Thomas shoved the older boy off. The said older boy was the first to speak, once they had caught their breath.  
"Sorry, Tommy." He wouldn't meet the Thomas's eyes.   
"I need to tell you what I did to Newt. You can kiss me after, but I doubt you'll want to." Minho lifted his gaze, and Thomas's breath caught in his throat. What he was going to admit would probably ruin any chances of a relationship.   
Minho nodded.   
"I killed Newt." The words came out in a tangled mess.   
"You _what?_ " Minho was on his feet all of a sudden, his face enraged and looming down on Thomas. He exhaled loudly and walked towards the bank of the lake and began to pace around the circumference, his head in his hands   
Thomas waited. He knew that Minho would come back, at some point at least. He felt it in his heart somehow. That, and he knew the Minho well enough to understand that he would want to know the whole story.  
"Sorry, shank." The older boy was back. He sat down, resting back against a nearby tree. "Talk. You better explain every shuck thing, because if not, I will rip your friggin' throat out."  
Thomas took a deep breath, and the words came tumbling out, a waterfall of guilt and regret. Minho didn't say a word throughout the whole explanation; he just sat, eyes glazed over, staring at some point on the distant foreshore.  
"And so I saw him," Thomas said, "And he was angry. Really angry. Told me it was my fault. Told me about how he got his limp. Told me to kill him. His eyes sorta cleared, and he was sane briefly. _Please, Tommy. Please._ And then," Thomas made a gun with his hand and mimicked shooting it. His hand flopped feebly to the dirt ground with a loud thump.   
"And then you shot him," Minho finished with a whisper.  
It was then that the tears came. Hard and fast and hot and salty and all at once. Thomas dragged himself over to the tree where the other boy sat and leant on his shoulder, their tears mingling together in a tsunami of sadness.   
"At least he went out on his own terms, right? Not eaten by cannibal monsters" Minho choked out after fifteen minutes.   
"A cannibal monster is what he didn't want to become," Thomas managed to say, his voice raw.   
They lapsed into silence again.   
"I doubt you'd want to kiss me now," he said, after what seemed like an eternity.   
"I always want to kiss you, shuck-face."  
And so he did.


End file.
